


Thirteen Labors of Wolverine

by Amuly



Series: Marvel's 1872 [10]
Category: Marvel 616, X-Treme X-Men
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Western, Body Hair, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Western, marvel 1872 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:53:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4634670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hercules is determined to leave PT Barnum's behind at the end of this season and travel through the wild, wild west. Howlett is less interested in what the dark corners of the world have for him, but could never let his Hercules run ahead without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirteen Labors of Wolverine

Smoke drifted up from behind a carriage, slow and thick in the wet spring evening. It dissipated somewhere about the museum, lost in the myriad of smoke, dust, and other such man made ephemera that hung over New York like a ghost. Ghosts of the city's denizens.

Behind the carriage Howlett sat on its steps, squinting out into the bright sunset. Days getting later. Sun sticking around longer. Soon the customers would be, too.

“My love!”

Howlett sniffed and adjusted his hat, pulling the brim lower to hide his smile. He grunted as Hercules threw himself down beside him, shaking the roughshod steps to their carriage with his bulk. Hercules breathed deep, hands firmly on his knees as he stared out into the sunset with Howlett.

“Good spring. Going to be a good harvest, this year. You can smell it in the air: sweet water falling on the seeds. Auspicious. Kind weather and bountiful harvest. Means it's a good year for traveling.”

There it was again. That subject Herc had taken to like a dog with a bone—or maybe like their boy-dog to a hunk of taffy the bearded lady snuck in for him every fortnight. Traveling. Moving on. Howlett's eyes snaked across the horizon. Out there into that great, wild west.

“You think you'll get rid of that fool name? If we left here.”

Hercules laughed in that bold, loud way he had. Like everything worth laughing at was worth laughing at fully; like they were feasting in the halls of Valhalla together, enjoying a boisterous quip. He slapped Howlett on the back—damn thing smarted.

“Why, are you thinking of leaving 'the Wolverine' behind! Surely not.”

Howlett shrugged. Smoke curled in front of his face, blew away into the dusty afternoon. Smoke and dust. “Might.”

“Ah, Howlett. But 'Hercules' isn't just my stage name: it's my family legacy! My mother-given name. Do you know that we are related to the great revolutionary war hero Hercules Mulligin?”

“You might have mentioned it once,” Howlett reminded him. Or thrice. Or every damn chance he got.

“It's a great legacy my dear mom set on my shoulders. God and hero: she expected me to be both.”

“And where'd you wind up?” Howlett asked. His eyes surveyed the backlot, mouth puffing away at his cigar. Cheap thing, smoke too acrid. Not that he ever had the luxury of the good stuff.

It took Howlett a couple seconds before he realized Hercules wasn't replying. He glanced over, only to find Hercules smiling curiously at him. When Howlett frowned in question, Hercules finally spoke: “I wound up with you, of course.”

Howlett chomped down on his cigar. Oh. He puffed harshly, blowing up a smoke screen between himself and Hercules' sincerity.

“But of course, it's not like Barnum is our last stop,” Hercules continued. He wrapped an arm around Howlett, yanking the shorter man in close. Howlett put up with it gamely. He had to, if he spent any amount of time around Herc. “This is where we are right now, my furry friend. Not where we 'wind up'. Not in the end.”

Howlett tracked Hercules' expansive hand gesture, looking down the horizon line it tried and failed to encompass. Sun setting over it, red staining the west.

“You'd leave Barnum?”

“Planning on it, someday. After all, there's so much yet to see! Men I haven't fought! Animals I have yet to hunt! Rivers yet undrunk, songs unheard.”

Something stirred within Howlett. He'd never been much the adventurer. Wanderer, sure: he'd wandered plenty in his day. Nomad, countryless. He'd been all these things. But out of necessity, not ever because he'd sought it out. Howlett watched the sun sink lower and lower. Disappearing into the west.

“Planning on giving me any warning?”

“Planning on you coming with me, my dear.”

Howlett snorted at the term of endearment, slouched down into his oversized coat. Spring was breaking. It'd be money making season soon. Not that they didn't do alright during the winter. Museum gave people something to do indoors. But there was something about the summertime sun, coaxing people out. The bright light giving them the courage to brave the oddities of P T Barnum's curiosity house. Fooling themselves into thinking the summer sun would keep them safe. That the heat made the monsters lazy. That the wicked and wilds of the world napped under the noonday sun.

“You're nuts,” Howlett finally mumbled.

“And crackers, and bananas,” Hercules announced. His hand slipped into Howlett's coat, stealing some of his warmth.

Stubbing out his cigar, Howlett stood up straight. His joints cracked, bones aching as they sloughed off the last of winter. “We'll see what end of season holds,” he murmured. Then he took off for his wagon. He felt Herc smiling after him. The sap.

* * *

 

Big blue eyes set inside a tiny, pale head peered at Howlett through the steel bars of his cage. He waited, watching from beneath heavy lids as the hawker steered the crowd in. The little girl kept her eyes fixed on him, tiny hands clasped before her like she was at church. Howlett pretended to sleep.

“Now gather round, ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys! Ladies, you may want to take a step back, fathers, hold on to the little ones, for what you are about to witness his a prehistoric horror the likes of which modern society has eliminated almost utterly. His hair grows long and matted like the mangiest of dogs, his eyes glisten with the black, predatory unintelligence of a shark. His claws are long as a lion's, sharpened against the twisted rocks of his home. He knows no empathy, no sympathy no-”

Howlett tuned out the rest of the hawker's patter. It was all old-news by this point in his career. The little girl was still watching him. Howlett opened his left eye enough that it was visibly cracked. The little girl stiffened, whole body coming to attention like an arrow notched and ready to fly. Howlett winked at her and went back to pretending to sleep. The girl's gasp sustained him through the rest of the hawker's speech.

* * *

 

Howlett's fingers were tracing whorls in Herc's chest hair, though he'd deny it if Herc ever pointed it out. The night was as quiet as it ever got at the museum, hawker's trap finally shut, the coos and shouts of children and their parents gone away with them, back to their homes in places where proper folk rested their heads. Howlett's fingers traced the whorls like a palm reader. He didn't see much.

A train sped by, whistle screaming as it stormed over roads and past buildings.

“I wouldn't take a train,” Herc announced, apparently roused from his post-dinner stupor by the train whistle. Howlett listened as the thrum of the engine and hiss of its wheels faded away.

“Don't get the lay of the land, that way. Stride right past a hundred towns between one stop and the next.”

“You're not planning on stopping at every town in the west, are you?” Howlett murmured, finally taking the bait.

“Just the ones I stop at,” Hercules replied coyly.

Grumbling to himself, Howlett lifted himself up onto his hands so he could look down at Hercules. The other man beamed at him, big and bright as Promethean fire. Howlett scowled as hard as he could, though he knew it was hardly effective on one who knew him as well as Hercules did.

“What if I don't go west?”

Hercules laughed. “You mean what if you don't go with me?”

“I never said that.”

Hercules 'ah'ed' softly. “You mean what if _I_ don't go west.”

Howlett stayed silent.

After a moment Hercules lifted one hand, stroking Howlett's cheek. His fingers brushed through his sideburns, combing them carefully. His hand drifted up, fingers curling through his hair, thumb rubbing the shell of Howlett's ear. Howlett shivered at the touch, eyelids growing heavy.

“The West is calling,” Hercules told him. “And who am I to resist?”

Howlett sighed and sank into Hercules, letting Hercules pull him down, letting Hercules capture his mouth. Their tongues tangled, their bodies sliding rough and strong against each other. Howlett's thighs grasped tight around Hercules' waist, holding himself securely in place. Hercules kissed him like it was a fight, like he was battling to prove his love. Howlett let him, teeth clashing, blood quickening with the anticipation of it, with the violence of their coupling.

It was Hercules' hand that wrapped around them both, lubricated by sweat and spit and spurts of seed. Howlett grunted and held on, eyes screwed shut as he pumped himself in Hercules' big hand. His thighs flexed with every thrust, thick stomach muscles twitching as his body built in pleasure. Hercules' other hand was tight on his rump, squeezing and kneading at the muscles there, encouraging Howlett to ride harder, faster. Howlett came with a grunt, spilling across their stomachs. A second later he found himself grabbed and flipped, cheek pressed to the mattress. He reached back as Hercules' thrust between his thighs, just holding on.

“I love you, you beautiful man,” Hercules declared as he rutted between Howlett's thighs.

Howlett grunted. Yeah, yeah.

His body shook with the force of Hercules' thrusts. Howlett grunted and squeezed his thighs tighter—though not as tight as he could. He may not be the “strongman”, but he could crack a cantaloupe with his thighs. It was part of his act.

“I love you,” Hercules announced again, peppering Howlett's back with kisses. Howlett grunted and squeezed at Hercules' thigh.

“My beautiful Howlett. My darling dearest.”

Howlett's eyes were shut, face pressed hard into their pillow. As he felt Hercules' thrusts grow more erratic, he grunted out: “I'll follow you, Herc. Anywhere.”

Hercules spilled himself with a shout, which dissolved into laughter. Howlett grunted, though a smile stole away in the corners of his mouth. When Hercules laid himself down next to him, Howlett pressed his face into Hercules' chest. He never much liked facing the foolish things he said amid the act. Like declaring his every intention of staying with Hercules to the far ends of this damned country. Howlett's nose twitched as Hercules' chest hairs tickled it.

“Who could have ever thought the Wild Wolverine could be tamed?” Hercules mused.

After a moment, Howlett gave himself over to wit: “Truly a task befitting a labor of Hercules.”

Hercules' uproarious laughter was worth the temporary insanity of Howlett making a joke.

* * *

 

October chill tried to chase off the Indian summer every morning, and every day by noon it lost the hunt. The sun beat down on Howlett's hat, his coat shoulders, the back of his gloves. He grumbled and shifted in the saddle as they rode, and rode, and rode.

Washed up in a small farming town in Arkansas. People were nice, wives smiled a lot, kids screeching down the street. Main Street had a bank, a general store. Good-looking place. Healthy trees, thick soil.

They stayed the night, Hercules ate, drank, and made love to Howlett. They left sweat-soaked sheets behind and were on the road with the chill still in the air.

The sun burned off that chill by mid-morning. Howlett squinted at the horizon and settled in for another day on the road. Not that place, then.

Oklahoma they found a town full of ranch folk. Hardier men and women than the last place: meaner, too. But quiet folks, kept to themselves. Used to the isolation on the plains. Hercules spoke Spanish to some of the cowboys, laughing and roaring and slapping backs. Howlett dug into his steak and nodded to himself. This could be a place for them. Here they could stay.

That morning Hercules woke Howlett with a hand between his legs, jerking him to quick satisfaction. He was clothed before Howlett's seed was dry, leaning against the door before Howlett had untangled the sheets from around his legs.

The sun was hot against their backs as they raced it west. Howlett wondered if one of these days they'd beat it to the horizon.

Nebraska and an early-season snowstorm laid them up in a trading town for two days. Should have been three, but Hercules returned one morning with two ponchos and six new pairs of socks. Howlett rolled out of bed and pulled them on, knowing there was no use fighting it. He was one man, and this was the west. One man could never face down the west, and certainly not a man like Howlett, who had too much wild and wooly inside him already. Howlett ran his hand over Hercules' neck and kissed him as they stomped down to the stables in an unusal display of affection. Hercules grinned big at him as they saddled their horses.

“Not having second thoughts, my love?”

Howlett shook his head. His fingers were numb, bare as he finished the fine motor work of saddling the horse. “You're here. I'm here.”

“I go, you go?” Hercules tilted his head at Howlett with a smile.

“Something like that.”

The chill stayed with them longer this day. By noon they were sweating, though. Howlett glanced up at the sun, sliding sideways across the sky as autumn hurried past them. They couldn't outrun winter: not even in the wild, wild west.

* * *

 

Howlett brought his hand down from over his eyes, though he kept his other on his throwing knives.

“Where the hell did you come from,” some man yelled out at them. Howlett couldn't see much besides the dim silhouette of whiskers poking out the sides of his cheeks.

“More importantly: how did you get _here_?” Long straight hair, woman beneath men's pants and men's shirt.

Hercules nudged his horse forward, that way he always did: putting himself between the threat and Howlett. “Gentlemen, ladies, please! We are weary travelers, throats dry from a long, dusty day on the trail. Surely your fine town here has lodgings for two such as ourselves?”

A man who had until now remained silent clicked his tongue, urging his horse forward. As he came closer, lamp in hand, Howlett was able to make out some of his features. He was a pale guy, English maybe, German, Polish: one of those north-European types. His Stetson tugged down firmly over his brow, clear eyes shinning out darkly in the lamplight. He looked between Howlett and Hercules, like he could see something in the dark night. Like he could determine something of their character just by looking. Howlett shrank down into his saddle, shoulders hunched in his trenchcoat. He wondered what the man thought he saw.

“Sorry about the welcome, folks. Name's Sheriff Rogers.”

Hercules stuck his hand out, smiling big in that congenial way of his. Howlett watched the sheriff closely.

“They call me Hercules, the world's strongest man! My companion in James Howlett, previously known as the fearsome Wolverine!”

“Side-show?” a man off to the side of the crowd called out. He was a short-ish fellow—not as short as Howlett, but not many men were. Had a girl next to him: hard to tell if it was his wife or daughter through the dark.

“P.T. Barnum himself,” Hercules asserted proudly. He squinted over at the man who had spoken, studying him same as Howlett had been. “You familiar with the trade yourself?”

The man didn't say anything. Howlett shifted in the ensuing silence. Hm. Answered that, then. Maybe the girl was from the show, too. Coming out west together like Howlett and Herc did.

“We have lodging and food for you folks, of course,” Sheriff Rogers continued. “Only, I'm sorry to say, our towns undergoing a kind of...”

“Quarantine,” the first man, the whiskered man, said. He nudged his horse forward a little and Howlett could catch a little more to his face. Dark hair and light eyes, skin looked off of white: maybe Italian or Turkish, if Howlett had to guess. Solid set of whiskers on him. He slouched towards the sheriff in an all-too-telling way. Howlett grunted to himself. So that answered that.

Hercules puffed out his chest and looked between the townsfolk. “Quarantine? Has a disease gripped your town? Small pox, then, or polio?”

“No, no,” the sheriff answered quickly. He shot a look to the whiskered man like he regretted letting him speak. “A series of strange occurrences, not a disease at all. Though in light of this strangeness, we're hoping to... ask you a few questions. Over a hot meal, on me, of course. If you folks wouldn't mind the imposition.”

Hercules nodded at the sheriff's words before glancing back at Howlett. He shrugged. Hercules would do what Hercules wanted to do. Asking Howlett's opinion was an ersatz courtesy.

“Strange town,” Howlett finally put forward.

Hercules answering grin was immediate. “Strangest we've seen yet.”

And that was that. This was the town. This was what Hercules had been searching for. Howlett squared his shoulders and looked at the townsfolk, nervous and clutching their lights to them. Might look like any other besieged town, except for one detail: those lights the folks were holding. Howlett had never seen any torch glow white-hot as the noonday sun.

Something was strange in this place.

Hercules turned back to the sheriff and spread his arms in welcome. “A mild interrogation is certainly not the worst I've had to endure for a hot meal! Lead on, my fair sheriff.”

“What's the name here?” Howlett called out, even as the townsfolk started to turn away.

Sheriff Rogers turned his horse to Howlett, looking him full-on in a way that was rare in men when face-to-face with the fearsome Wolverine. He nodded at Howlett. “Well sirs, you two have found yourself in Rescue.”

The man with the whiskers clicked his tongue at his horse. “God help you both.”

 


End file.
